


The Pain Artist

by Timely9



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-07-15
Packaged: 2018-07-24 05:00:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7494828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timely9/pseuds/Timely9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He chose this. . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Pain Artist

Tim let out a shaky breath as he dug his nails into the patches of skin around his throat and across his sternum that had been painted purples and blues by fists of wrath and kicks of spite. Jason’s signature--bite--kiss--requirement to be seen by the people who betrayed him. Tim’s hands kept creeping along, drinking in the feeling of raw, tenderized, not very ivory skin. 

Tim faltered at blistering, bubbling, freshly burned skin along his abdomen, that was too new to prod and poke at without hissing. Damian’s latest act of rage--jealousy--resentment--need to be taken seriously as a candidate for his father’s throne. Tim gripped a leather belt between his teeth, salty tears flowing down his cheeks, as he violently gouged into the white hot blisters. 

Tim slid down a slick tiled wall into an ice bath he drew himself, and thought, thought about Dick’s negligence--blind eye--omission--compulsion to see only the good in his decisions even if that meant glossing over any pain it could cause others. Tim stayed in the frosted water until he felt warmer in it than out. His lips were blue and muscles creaking with every movement from that point on. 

Tim was their machine--tool--ragdoll. Accepting this notion with hope and capacity for love he embraced Jason’s snarling smile and sharp laugh when his stifled lungs made contact with air creating a sort of horrid wheezing or screaming sound. He embraced the skewed sight of pure hatred in Damian’s eyes from the floor, where he lie twitching, a gaping hole where a Dick’s stolen taser burrowed through the fabric of his shirt. He embraced the strenuous and pointless work that Dick forced down his throat with false promises of taking a break and having dinner together afterward. 

But the glass shattered and Dick’s face was full of remorse when he thrusted pointed glass under Tim’s ribs. _You’re no longer Robin._ Tortured him with the words feared from the first day Bruce gave him the mask. _You’re no longer Robin._ He could feel his lungs liquefying at the triumphant look on Damian’s face. _You’re no longer Robin!_

He almost crumpled under the weight of those words. But he remembered, remembered how Jason’s hands wrapped around his throat making air unnecessary. Remembered how tears dropped from his eyes caught in the open blisters on his abdomen inflaming them further. Remembered the cold sinking in and never letting go. 

Tim smiled with blue lips, an ache in his flesh, breath not coming to his lungs, and stiff bones. With a deteriorating body he walked away from them. His head was held high. He knew something that the man in the bat ears and the boy in the bird beak didn’t: endurance is the purest measure of strength.

**Author's Note:**

> "If there's a book that you want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.” -Toni Morrison


End file.
